Letters From Home
by All-choseny
Summary: 9/11 was a day Buffy Summers would never forget. It was the day her husband went to war. Several months later Buffy learns Angel has been tragically killed. And she learns to love again with Spike, a man who has a secret that could change everything.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Letters From Home

Story by: all-choseny

Pairings: Spike/Buffy

Rating: PG-13

Genre: All Human

Betas: dawnofme & mabel_marsters .All mistakes are mine and mine alone.

Disclaimer: This story is not written for profit and it is written for entertainment purposes only. The characters in this story belong to their original creator.

Summary: 9/11 was a day Buffy Summers would never forget. It was the day her husband Angel told her he was going to war. While he's in Iraq, Buffy and Angel exchange letters nearly everyday to stay close, but several months later Buffy learns Angel has been tragically killed during a mission. She vows to stay single until she meets Spike. The attraction is instantaneous, but Buffy is determined to fight it. Despite her resistance, Spike is determined to win Buffy's love for himself even if it means keeping a secret from her.

Prologue

_September 11, 2001_

The pleasant sounds of morning filled the brightly lit kitchen as Buffy moved efficiently from the stove to the kitchen table. Bacon sizzled in a frying pan next to a hot griddle with three half-dollar sized pancakes, and the coffee was brewing in the Mr. Coffee maker Willow got her the Christmas before. Breakfast was Buffy's favorite meal of the day. It was also the easiest to cook. Humming a light tune, she flipped the pancakes.

At the table, the baby began to tap her sippy cup on the tray attached to her high chair, signaling to Buffy that more juice was in order.

"How do we ask for more?" Buffy ran her hand over the little girl's dark hair, hair that was just like her father's. The little girl smiled at her mother, exposing her tiny little baby teeth she'd cut about the year before.

"Juice, please!" she said.

Buffy smiled and kissed the top of her hair, enjoying that pleasant baby smell only J_ohnson's & Johnson's_ could provide.

"Okay, one cup of juice just for you, Emma."

Buffy took the pink cup from her daughter's pudgy hands and headed over to the refrigerator. She made a short pit stop by the counter and turned on the television. The sound of the morning news filled the room as Buffy shook a carton of Pedialyte and chatted with her daughter, pointing out colors and objects for her to spy.

"The Twin Towers are down! Oh my God, the-the- Twin Towers have fallen down!"

Buffy lifted her head, momentarily distracted from her rousing game of "I spy" to stare at the images that filled the small television screen. It took her a few moments to process what she was seeing.

"I spy!" Emma said, trying to get her mother's attention.

"Shhh."

Buffy frowned as she watched the replay of the first, then the second building tumbling to the ground. She shook her head as they showed the second plane flying into the very top of the building in a head on collision. A part of her wanted to believe it was some kind of joke, a promo for a movie, but it was clear from the panicked voices of the reporters this was all too real.

Buffy barely noticed the juice spill over the side of Emma's cup. "Sh-" Buffy said, almost letting the curse slip. She lifted the small plastic cup to her lips and took a sip. Behind her the pancakes began to burn and the smell of smoke quickly filled the air. Buffy snapped the sippy cup together and handed it to Emma who continued to pound her little plastic eating utensils on her tray.

With one ear and eye on the television, Buffy turned off the stove and tried fruitlessly to save what was left of breakfast. Tentatively she lifted the hot cakes with a spatula and confirmed her suspicions. While the top half of the pancakes were golden brown, the bottom halves were blackened. Buffy blew on her bangs causing them to gust up as she dumped all of their breakfast in the trash. Improvising, Buffy placed a handful of Cheerio's on Emma's high chair tray until she could start breakfast again.

On the television, news reports continued to cover the plane crashes into the World Trade Center. Buffy's knees weakened and she hastily sat on one of the kitchen chairs. It was almost surreal watching the second plane crash into the building on live TV. The reporters on air all expressed their surprise for the world to see, each of them forgetting their studio audience. Moments later both blazing buildings toppled to the ground. Officials were calling it acts of terrorism as more reports came in about a third plane crash into the pentagon and a fourth plane crash presumed to be headed toward the white house.

Buffy jumped when the phone rang. Still stunned, she walked over to the phone and lifted it off the hook.

"Hello?" she answered absently.

"Buffy? Are you okay?"

The breath she'd been holding escaped her lungs at the sound of Angel's voice on the other end of the phone. "Yes. Are you? Where are you?"

"I'm fine. I'm still on base," he said, his tone bereft of any emotion. "Did you see any of the reports?"

Buffy nodded before she answered into the phone. "Yes, I just turned on the TV. The Twin Towers…"

"I know. It happened earlier this morning. We heard about it right away."

"What's happening? Are these really terrorist attacks?"

"I can't say. Right now no one knows anything."

"When are you coming home?" Buffy couldn't help the pleading in her voice.

"I'm not sure. Things are crazy right now."

Buffy closed her eyes and gripped the phone tighter in her hand. She tried to stay calm as her mind began to race. No one knew what was going on. They could be under a terrorist attack and her husband was thousands of miles away on an Army base in Germany.

"I want you to come home, Angel." Buffy's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Buffy..." Angel didn't know what to say. He was supposed to be done with his tour in four months. In just four months he would be back home with his wife and daughter. He had already missed Emma's second birthday, he didn't want to miss her third. Angel had promised his wife he would be coming home soon. Now he wasn't so sure. "You know I want to come home. You know I want that more than anything."

Tears welled up in her eyes. She knew that tone of voice. She knew what it meant for her-for them. She blinked hard. "But you won't."

"I can't," he corrected her. "They're talking about a war, Buffy."

Buffy's chest constricted. Blindly, her hand reached for the linoleum counter top and gripped it until her knuckles turned white. "You promised me you wouldn't re-up."

"I know," Angel said faintly. "But I can't come back now. I'm sorry."

Chapter One

Iraq, 2001

"Bloody hell!" Spike tripped over the threshold of the empty barracks and staggered inside. Through bleary eyes, he strained to make out which bed was his.

They all looked exactly the same. He had never noticed that before. Spike patted down his uniform several times before he realized he was holding his prized flask in the opposite hand. With jerky motions, Spike untwisted the cap and took a long, hard swig. The alcohol burned a line of fire down his throat and warmed his belly. He burped once, before he made his way down the rows of neatly made beds until he found the one that belonged to him.

Spike continued to grumble as he flopped down on his bed. He cursed under his breath at the hard spring mattress he had to sleep on every night since enlisting. It was all her bloody fault, Spike thought as his mind drifted back to Drusilla. He'd joined the army because of her. Their last break up had been a brutal one. Theirs was a very volatile love, but they couldn't live without each other. She would leave, but she would eventually come back. It had always been that way. Spike was the only one who could take care of her, and no one could love her the way he did.

"Me and you were forever, you stupid bitch!" Spike slurred. He jerked the letter he'd folded up and read it for the third time that night.

Dru's handwriting was large and overblown against the lined paper. It was almost childlike, just like she was. Spike gave an unmanly sniff as he tried to keep from crying. At that moment, the door to the barracks swung open, and Spike began to scramble on his bed.

"Oh, it's you," he said when he realized the intruder was only Angel.

"Were you expecting anyone?" Angel said from across the room. He studied Spike's disheveled appearance and guessed he was drunk from the way he slurred his words and the change in his accent. "Are you drinking, Spike?"

Spike leaned back against the metal frame of his bed and glared at Angel behind heavily hooded eyes. From the moment they'd met, there was just something about the other man that didn't quite sit with Spike. He thought it had a lot to do with the striking resemblance Angel bore to the last wanker Dru had shagged behind his back. That guy had a poncy name as well. Heath, Stone, or something of the sort. Spike lifted his flask and took a long swig while he eyed Angel over the rim.

"Yeah, and what of it? You gonna go running back to tell?"

"No. You'll eventually get caught. I was only coming in to-"

"Lemme guess, write your bird a love letter?" Spike spat out in disgust. Bitterness boiled in the pit of his stomach like a hot geyser. The one and only letter he had received from Dru was a letter telling him to piss off.

"Look, Spike, obviously you're going through something. It's none of my business. I'm just going to grab a few things and leave. If you want to talk about it-"

"Well, I don't. Got myself a real good set up right here." Angel shrugged his shoulders and turned to leave. "She's gone and left me," Spike said.

Angel was hoping he'd be able to leave without having to hear whatever dramatics were going on in Spike's life. They weren't exactly friends. And the other man had guessed right; he had been planning to write Buffy a letter. Too many weeks had gone by since the last time he'd had the opportunity to write.

"Again. And this time for my best mate. Says it all right here." Spike lifted the letter and waved it around wildly.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Angel said, trying to make his voice sound sincere .

"Stupid, bloody, bint," Spike mumbled as he hunkered down on his bed. "She says she can't put her life on hold and that I'm not 'the man I used to be.' She says she has ineeds/i." Spike took another drink from his flask. "You know, I joined this sodding war because of her?"

"No, I didn't know that. Listen, Spike I have to-"

"Yeah. Had us a flaming huge row. I got completely pissed and signed my life away for two whole years. And you know what I get for it? My girl shagging my best friend. And you should see this guy. Clem. He's got acne. Big, huge craters all over the place." As he spoke, Spike gestured toward his own smooth face as if to emphasize his point. "Got a bloody face that only a mother could love. And apparently Dru does, too. Oh Christ." Spike buried his face into his hands and began to sob.

He knew he should be feeling shame and embarrassment, crying in front of another man like some ponce, but he couldn't help himself. "I got a bloody 'Dear John' letter. I'm off at war risking life and limb, and my girl dumps me through the post. I'm a walking cliche."

Angel stood awkwardly a few feet away from the crying blond man. He tried to empathize with Spike. Angel knew that if he ever received one of those letters he would be just as devastated. "I'm sorry," he said finally after searching the catalogue of sympathetic phrases. He couldn't find one that didn't sound placating and decided to go with the old tried and true 'I'm sorry.'

Spike lifted his head and stared at Angel behind bleary, red-rimmed eyes. "Yeah, so am I. Sorry I ever laid eyes on the bitch," he said even though he knew he didn't mean it. Not really. "What would you do? If you found out your wife was putting it to your best friend?"

"I don't know. I think I'd react just like you."

Spike barked out a short laugh and shook his head. "But it wouldn't happen to you would it? You've got the perfect life and the perfect lil' wife at home, don't you?"

"No one's perfect, Spike."

"You know something, Angel. I always give you hell about your letters. But I-"

Spike shook his head, cutting himself off. He was not about to tell Angel he envied him. It wasn't Angel he really envied per se. He took a long hard look at his fellow soldier. His eyes were beady and too close set. And the forehead-he could play a feature film on that thing. He supposed Angel was good looking if one were into the whole look-deep-into-my-brooding-soul kind of thing. Most women were. No, he didn't envy Angel physically or even mentally. What he envied was his stability. He had a loving wife at home who obviously doted on him. He had a family. Spike may have razzed Angel about it all the time, but deep down inside he wanted that too.

"Forget it. I just need to forget about her, 's all." Spike tilted his flask up to his lips and prepared to take another long drink, but the flask was empty.

"I think the bar's cut you off," Angel said as he stepped forward and took the flask out of Spike's hand.

"Hey! Gimme that back."

"I will once you're sober. In the meantime we better get you out of Doyle's bed. I'm sure he wouldn't be too thrilled about sharing it with someone else."

Spike's eyes widened in surprised as he looked around the room. "I'm in Doyle's bed?"

"Yeah. And it's going to be lights out in a few. Here, can you stand up?"

Spike stood up and grinned proudly when he was able to do it on his own. He looked down at his regulation-booted feet and took one careful step forward before he nearly went tumbling down. Angel quickly grabbed him. Without saying a word, he helped walk Spike to his own bed and sat him down.

"You're on your own with your clothes."

Spike patted down his tan army fatigues and frowned. "Awww, Peaches, you know you've been waiting for the opportunity to see me naked."

"Goodnight, Spike."

Spike laughed. When he closed his eyes, he saw Drusilla's face. Spike groaned, the pain in his heart growing deeper, knowing that her dark eyes were going to haunt him throughout the night.


	2. Chapter 2

Buffy covered Emma's body with a small blanket and watched as she slept peacefully in her crib. As Emma continued to sleep, Buffy touched her soft, dark curly hair before she walked over to the window just in time to see the postman pull up to her mailbox. Stomach fluttering with anticipation, she watched as he placed a stack of envelopes in it. She cast a last glance at Emma before she headed down the stairs and out the front door.

She practically ran down the porch steps and toward her mailbox . Buffy stood and waited a few moments. A warm breeze blew around her, causing the leaves to rustle. She closed her eyes against the afternoon sun and continued to wait before she looked inside . The suspense was always maddening. Would there be a letter? Would there not be a letter? She sucked in a short breath, opened the small hatch door, and reached inside. She quickly flicked through the bills and solicitations until she found what she was looking for.

The letter had arrived nearly a month after he'd written it. Tearing the envelope open, Buffy poured over Angel's words. The tension in her shoulders ebbed when she read that he was safe. _Thank God,_ Buffy thought .

Buffy knew this was something all military wives had to go through. It was part of the package. She just had no idea it would be this hard. The missed birthdays, the anniversaries, and the holidays were all starting to pile up. Each day Angel was gone became a void that was hard to fill. She had the support of her friends, but they all had their own lives. They reminded her that Angel would be home soon, but there was always this nagging voice in the back of her mind that questioned his safety.

iWhat if he didn't make it?/i

As she continued to read, Buffy slowly made her way up the porch stairs and into the silent house. She could almost hear his voice as she sat on the sofa and laughed at one of his stories. She was glad this letter was one of his more light-hearted reports.

The thought of losing Angel terrified Buffy. She'd already lost her mother from cancer her sophomore year of college. She barely spoke to her father, and the only family she had was her sister, Dawn. But Dawn was away at college in New York. For the hundredth time since Angel left for Iraq, she wished he was home safe and sound.

She would just have to hope for the best. Angel had been in the army ever since they graduated from high school. Buffy remembered the day he'd left for basic training. She hadn't been allowed to speak to him for thirteen weeks. After that, he'd been shipped off to some army base across the country until they allowed him to move closer to home. She was used to not seeing him for long stretches of time, but during the whole time, they hadn't been at war.

Buffy tried to be supportive. She had written countless letters and sent care packages to his unit. In her letters she was always chatty and upbeat. She knew it was important for her to keep a positive attitude. In his letters, Angel always had to be selective of what he said. A lot of what he did and saw everyday was considered classified. Either way, they still managed to send long detailed letters to one another. When she was done reading, Buffy hugged the letter to her chest as if she were hugging Angel.

She was lucky. She had a husband who bravely went out everyday and risked his life for his country. She was nothing but proud of him. He had come a long way from the moody senior with the chip on his shoulder when they first met. She had a beautiful daughter, and when Angel was done with his tour, they would be a family again.

Spike groaned the moment he heard the wake up call. The thing he hated most about army life besides all the sand and heat was having to get up at dawn. Before he joined the army, he had seldom gotten up a minute before noon. While most people had to be up for their nine-to-fives, he enjoyed sleeping in. It was one of the perks of being a freelance writer. He set his own schedule and worked his own hours. Most of the time he could be on the job while he sat in a bar watching whatever sports program was on with a bottle of beer off to the side.

That was how he met Drusilla. He'd been at a party for some old-money ponce in the Hamptons. She'd been there looking as bored as ever, surrounded by New York society and Euro trash elite. He'd been trying his luck with Cecily, one of New York's heiresses, and getting turned down horribly. The moment he caught eyes with Drusilla, he'd forgotten all about Cecily and all her glorious money and approached Drusilla. He still remembered her voice that first night. It had been mysterious and dark just like the rest of her. One minute they'd been enjoying cocktails and champagne at a beach house, and the next they were smoking cigarettes and sharing a bottle of tequila at a local pub. Things got a little fuzzy after that, but he would never forget what happened in the alley at the side of that pub.

He'd been feeling warm and drunk enough to be adventurous, but not drunk enough to do anything too stupid. When Dru pulled him into that dark alley, Spike had been more than game to do whatever it was she wanted him to do. After that, they had spent one amazing week shagging like rabbits in her guest room at that beach house. The week after that, she moved in with him in his Soho flat.

Spike threw his forearm over his eyes and mumbled a tirade of curses under his breath. He could see light reflecting behind his eyes and knew if he didn't get up soon there would be hell to pay. His mouth was dry and his tongue was heavy and thick from all the alcohol he'd consumed the night before. .

"Someone quit playing that sodding drum!" he said groggily.

Angel looked down at the man and almost felt bad for him. He knew Spike was going to have one hell of a hangover. "That isn't a drum. That's just your head pounding."

"Oh?" Spike peeked open an eye, and Angel came into focus.

"Here, drink this, it'll make you feel better. And take these, too." Angel handed Spike a glass of water and two white tablets.

Spike sat up in his bed and barely held it together as the world rocked back and forth twice before it steadied. He took the glass and shoved the pills in his mouth before he gulped the water down.

"What were they?" he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Just two Motrin. That should at least help you get up and get moving. We've got a drop today, 0800," Angel reminded him.

"Right, a drop. How could I forget?" Spike wiped a hand down his face before he sucked in a heavy breath and sighed. He was the wheelman on this mission, which meant he had to drive. Spike was pretty sure he was still drunk from the night before.

"Well, get a move on it. If you need more Motrin, just let me know," Angel said before moving away.

Angel had a few things he wanted to do before they had to leave. He hadn't slept well the night before.. . He was always nervous when they were about to go on a mission.

While the others chatted around him during breakfast in the mess hall, Angel sat quietly and ate. Everyone was used to his brooding by now and left him alone. They understood that he had a family at home, and many of them had wives and children, too, but they all tried to make the best of their circumstances. While they played cards and drank, Angel spent most of his time sitting in a quiet corner somewhere reading or writing.

"Sittin' there brooding about it won't make it better," Doyle said as he sat next to his friend.

"I'm not brooding."

"You're brooding. What's buggin' you?"

Angel shook his head and continued to eat. "I just have this feeling. It's probably nothing. But it won't go away. I'm going to talk to Lieutenant. Giles and ask if I can make a call."

"You're calling Buffy?"

"If I can."

"Sounds like a good deal, mate. But you better get going. We'll be leaving soon. And I need a drink."

Angel shook his head and watched Doyle take off in search of alcohol. After dumping the remains of his breakfast, he made his way to the lieutenant's table.

From across the mess hall, Spike watched as Angel and Lt. Giles talked quietly with one another. He figured he was probably ratting him out for getting sloshed the night before. Spike glared at them from across the room and wished he could hear what they were saying. After a few minutes Angel walked away. Spike waited for the older man to walk over to him and say something. When nothing happened, he allowed his shoulders to relax and let out a breath. iMaybe the git isn't that bad after all,/i Spike thought .

He and Angel hadn't really given each other a chance, Spike realized. They were two alpha males and there was only room for one leader in the pack. Spike didn't like Angel because he was too cautious. Their job was to blow shit up, and most of the time he was too busy worrying about enemy casualties. On the other hand, Spike was a lot more reckless. He liked to think of himself as Clark Kent, mild mannered writer by day and well, that wasn't a such a good analogy. But he'd always been a risk taker.

Spike thought about the night before when he'd gotten tanked over Drusilla. Angel had pretty much tucked him in his bed. Spike figured he owed him one. They probably would never see eye to eye about anything, but at least they could try and get along. Spike decided he'd stop challenging him so much and follow his orders if they weren't too stupid.

Spike sat behind the wheel of the truck. Even with his aviator shades on, the sun was too bright and stung his eyes. His head felt like stuffed cotton and even after four cups of coffee and Motrin, he still felt like hell. "I wish they'd bloody hurry up," Spike said as he looked through the side view mirror. The truck was still being secured with their transport.

"How's the head?" asked Angel as he appeared at the window.. He wasn't sure how much Spike had to drink the other night, but he was fairly certain that the man was still drunk.

"How do you think? Like I have a thrash band playing up there."

"Need more Motrin?"

"No. What I need is a beer," he said, thinking of the aged old remedy for a hangover. Spike squinted against the sun and wiped his brow. He should have been used to the sand and the heat by now, but today it felt worse. The sun reflected off the desert sand like glass. He could see the heat shimmer in the air and knew it was well over a hundred degrees out. The heat always seemed to make everyone crazy, especially the natives. He just wanted to make the drop and nurse his hangover while he licked his wounds.

"I'll drive if you want. I know how it is."

Spike eyed Angel and contemplated taking him up on the offer. He thought about having to drive while his stomach lurched back and forth. The prospect didn't seem too appealing.

"Yeah, I think that would be best," Spike said. The switch took less than five minutes. "So what did you and old Rupert talk about this morning?" Spike Broke the silence.

"Nothing. I didn't tell him you were drunk if that's what you're fishing for."

Spike tried to hide the smirk that tilted the corner of his lips. "I wouldn't care if you did." He tapped his fingers on the dash, beating a soft tattoo. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"What iwere/i you talking about?"

"I wanted to make a call to my wife."

"Oh," Spike said nodding. He stared out the window during the awkward silence that followed, but couldn't help his next question. "Did you get to talk to her?"

"No. it went straight to voice mail, but I left her a message."

"Well, I'm sure that'll make her day."

Angel nodded his head, but didn't say any more. Spike took that as his cue that the conversation was over. Angel wasn't the verbose type. Spike thought he should have asked to sit in the back with the rest of the unit, but he figured maybe the silence was a blessing. His head was still pounding, and he wasn't up for the loud banter that usually went on in the back.

As they drove along, Spike struggled to keep his eyes open. He wanted nothing more than to shut out the heat and the engine noise with sleep. Instead, he kept his eyes sharp. Behind the sand dunes, he knew death could be waiting for them.

"How long have you been married?" Spike asked to break the quiet.

Without taking his eyes off the road, Angel answered, "Since we graduated from high school."

"Nice. Me and Dru, we've been on and off for years."

Angel nodded his head. "How did you meet?" he asked finally.

"At a shindig in the Hamptons. Ever heard of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce?"

"The hotel guy?"

"The one and the same. The Hamptons. I should have known it would never last."

"Maybe you'll work it out."

Spike shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe, who knows? She always comes back when she gets tired or bored with whoever it is she's decided to shack up with."

Angel glanced over at Spike from the corner of his eyes. He wanted to ask why he put up with it, but decided it was none of his business. He trained his eyes back on the road again and continued to drive carefully .

The row of road spikes were camouflaged. By the time Angel saw them, it was too late. He heard the loud bursting noises of all four tires before. Angel gripped the steering wheel and tried desperately to gain control over the vehicle. In the back, he could hear the surprised sounds from his men and the crashing of supplies as the truck whipped wildly on the road. Angel barely registered what was happening as the truck hit a huge bump and took flight briefly. He could feel the weightlessness in his stomach as they sailed along. It felt like hours, but it was only mere seconds before the truck crashed to the ground with such force that dirt and sand exploded into the air. Angel shut his eyes just as the truck burst into flames.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"It isn't about who you were or who they were. It doesn't matter if you did something wrong or not. It's all about power," Buffy said as she stared into the eyes of each girl in her group session. Her shoes tapped against the tiled floor as she walked around the quiet room.

Buffy gazed into the faces of the girls who sat in front of her. Many of them came to Caritas broken and defeated from years of abuse. The teen center offered hope and sanctuary. Buffy had started working for the group home just after graduating from UC Sunnydale with her B.A. in sociology. It was a hard job, but if she reached one life, it was worth it.

"Power over you. Now you can continue to let them have that power over your life and the choices you make, or you can be strong. Strong enough to move on. Are you ready to be strong?" Buffy said directly at a young woman named Kennedy.

The girl stared at her briefly before she averted her eyes. Buffy smiled and headed back to the front of the room, picked up a red dry erase marker, and started to write a word across the clean white board just as the door swung opened.

Lorne, the center's director, poked his head in. "Buffy?"

Buffy turned and smiled at her boss. "Hey, Lorne, we were just finishing up our session."

"Looks like I missed a good one," he said to none of the girls in particular. "Mind if I borrow her for a minute?" The girls shook their heads and eyed the director of the group home curiously.

"What is it, Lorne?" Buffy said as she put the marker down.

"If you can step out in the hallway, I'll explain."

Buffy nodded and flashed him a nervous smile. Lorne never pulled her out of a session unless it was an emergency. The first thought that crossed her mind was Emma. Was she sick? Hurt? Buffy's heart begin to pound in her chest as she walked out of the room. Once she was at the door, she turned to the class and asked them to pull out their journals and write down their thoughts.

"What's up?" Buffy said when they were alone.

The corner of Lorne's lips lifted into a reassuring smile. "I need you to come with me. You have some visitors," he said, placing his hand on the small of her back.

Buffy studied the expression on Lorne's Emma. Angel./i

"Lorne, what's going on? Is it Angel?"

Lorne remained uncharacteristically silent. Buffy wanted to yell at him and force him to spit out whatever he was holding back. She was on the verge of doing just that, when she saw two officers standing just inside Lorne's office. Their uniforms were crisp on their tall slender frames. Buffy's knees grew weak.

"Just breathe, turtle dove, it'll be all right," Lorne whispered.

Buffy could barely hear him as the blood began to rush from her head. The ringing in her ears drowned out the officer's polite introductions.

"Whoa, check out the meat," Faith said, as she walked through the buildings wide double doors carrying a drink tray with two cups of coffee in one hand and a bag of bagels in the other. She eyed the two men as if they were candy and whistled under her breath.

"Faith, can you take over Buffy's class? I'll explain in a minute," Lorne said.

Faith glanced between Buffy and the uniformed men, noticing for the first time their grim expressions and the stricken look on her co-worker's face. "Sure thing, boss." Faith nodded as she walked past the group. She turned to stare at them one last time before she slipped through the classroom door.

Buffy's eyes darted between both men . She knew it was the moment that all military wives dreaded. Her knees wobbled as she stared at the two men and waited to hear the news.

"Ms. Summers," the taller of the two began somberly.

Buffy turned her head toward the officer, but her eyes refused to meet his. Instead, she focused on the spot at the center of his forehead. He had a pimple, small and red in the middle of his sunburned skin.

"We regret to inform you that your husband was bravely killed during a mission on Tuesday..."

Buffy shut her eyes tightly. She couldn't hear anything over the beating of her own heart. Her nails dug into Lorne's skin as she gripped his arm. The officer continued to speak, but Buffy couldn't concentrate on his words. She began to shake her head rapidly back and forth, ignoring him.

She didn't believe them. She had just gotten a letter from Angel. He called her a few days before. She missed his call because she'd left her phone lying on the bed. When she got home, the tiny message indicator on her cell was blinking, letting her know she had a message. Buffy had been pleasantly surprised to hear him on the recording.

She remembered the sound of his voice as he told her he loved her. The message was still saved on her phone. She didn't want to erase it, savoring his brief message until she was lucky enough to get another.

"No." She choked back a sob as her knees finally buckled.

Spike blinked his eyes against the bright lights as he resurfaced from his sleep. He wanted to move, but he couldn't find the will or strength to try. He could hear steady slow beeps around him and wondered where the sound was coming from.

Across the room, Spike saw a boxy wood framed chair with a patchwork cushion. The chair was next to a window with matching drapes. The walls were the same blue-green color as everything else in the room. On his left, he saw another bed with a thin curtain pushed back. It was neatly made and appeared to be unoccupied.

iI'm in a hospital./i Spike struggled to push himself up. For the first time since he opened his eyes, he noticed the I.V. stand and the heart monitors beside him. Frantically, he pulled at the tubes poking out of his skin. At that moment, the heart monitor began to beep faster and the fluorescent green lines on the screen jumped to life. A few moments later, a nurse ran into the room, her face etched with concern.

"Just calm, calm," the pretty brunette said in broken English. She placed a small hand on Spike's chest and tried to push him down.

"Where am I?"

The nurse looked at Spike sympathetically as she tried to sooth him. "Hospital."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

_One Year Later_

Buffy pulled her jean jacket tighter around herself and stared at the night sky. She usually sat out on the roof whenever she needed to think and get away. The day before had marked the one year anniversary of Angel's death. Around her, life continued. People grieved and they eventually moved on. For them, yesterday had been an ordinary day. Buffy had reached a milestone.

According to most grief councilors, the first year of bereavement was the hardest. After a year, it was supposed to get easier. _I think I'm supposed to be on acceptance by now. Or is it depression? Definitely feels like depression_.

Buffy twirled the diamond encrusted Claddagh ring on her left finger. She hadn't taken her ring off since the day Angel had slipped it on. If she took the ring off, then it would truly mean he was gone. Tears brimmed in Buffy's eyes as she lifted her hand and pressed it to her chest.

Some days were easier than the others. There were times when she almost felt normal. Then it would hit her. Angel was dead. She'd be cooking or standing in the middle of the cleaning aisle in the supermarket when she'd suddenly remember he was never coming home.

Buffy thought about the funeral service the year before. It seemed like half the town of Sunnydale had shown up to pay their respects for one of their "fallen sons", as Mayor Wilkins put it. She'd been barely lucid during the ceremony and wake. The entire day was spent in a blur, smiling and talking when she was required to. She had to keep it together. She had to be the brave little widow.

In the weeks following the funeral, people she considered strangers would randomly stop her to express their condolences. Her husband had died, but they treated her as if she was terminally ill. Now, for them, Angel's passing was just a distant memory. For her, his absence was still a freshly opened wound.

She knew she had to learn to cope and move on. She had Emma to think of. As much as she wanted to slink into the shadows, Buffy knew she couldn't. She had to be both a mother and a father to her daughter.

Her friends were worried. They thought she spent too much time at work or home. They encouraged her to go out and even date. But she wasn't ready. Buffy didn't think she would ever be ready. She didn't believe she could possibly love anyone that hard again.

"I thought I'd find you out here."

Buffy quickly brushed the tears from her cheeks and pasted on a smile at the sound of Xander's voice. "I'm that predictable, huh?" She stared ahead, not wanting him to see that she'd been crying.

Xander shrugged his shoulders and found a comfortable spot on the hard surface of the roof. "Predictable? Nah, I don't think that would be a word I'd use to describe you."

"Is the movie over?"

"Yeah, it just finished. You know, there's something to be said about the wonderful world of Disney. You missed a great marathon. There were singing crabs, dancing candlesticks, and mice that sew. And they all lived happily ever after."

Despite her earlier melancholy, Buffy's lips lifted into a slight smile. "Except they really don't." Her voice was soft and wistful. "The mermaid gets her legs, she learns the shoe doesn't fit, and her handsome prince was just a dream."

Xander dipped his head and stared down into his hands.

"I'm sorry, Xander," Buffy said breaking the silence. "I just wasn't up for Disney tonight."

"I understand."

"Forgive me?"

"Already done." Xander winked and bumped his shoulder against hers. "Now Willow and Tara, they're a different story. Tara's cleaning up the kitchen and Willow is putting Emma to bed."

"I'm a bad mother. I should be tucking Emma in."

"Everyone deserves a break sometimes, even mothers. Besides, Willow loves it and Emma doesn't mind. And as her Godfather, I should know. "

Buffy was grateful to have friends like Xander, Willow, and Tara. The past year would have been harder without their support. She laid her head on Xander's shoulder and closed her eyes. Buffy didn't say anything when he took her hand in his and squeezed it lightly.

"I love you, Xander."

"Love you too, Buff." He wrapped his arms around Buffy's shoulder and pulled her tighter against him. "Come on, I want to say goodnight to Em before I leave," he said leading her back into the house through the window.

Spike sat in his wheelchair and stared blankly at the television in the V.A. Hospital recreation room. The staff tried hard to make the room look inviting with cushy sofas and matching lamps and drapes. But no matter how hard they tried, It was still a hospital.

Hospitals were for the sick and dying. He wasn't dying, but on the worse days he wished he had.

As far as Spike knew, he'd been the only one to survive the crash. By some divine miracle or stroke of luck, he'd been thrown from the truck and had managed to survive that too. Spike didn't know whether to credit that to some big ominous man in the sky or fate. Either way, he hadn't died. Although he should have. He was supposed to be driving that day. He should have been shipped home in a box, not Angel or the rest of the men in his unit. A deep scowl darkened Spike's features as he thought about waking up in that hospital crippled and being shipped back to the U.S. with an honorable discharge.

When he got back, everyone had commended him for his bravery. Spike wondered what was so brave about surviving a fiery crash by chance. He remembered laughing bitterly about it when one of the nurses handed him a bedpan for the first time. One moment he'd been laughing uncontrollably and the next moment, the steel bedpan had gone flying in the nurse's direction.

He had to use a bedpan now. Spike couldn't do anything without the supervision of another adult as if he were a child. He hated to see the muted sympathy in stranger's eyes when they saw him. When he noticed someone looking at him with pity, he usually scowled at them. If he was feeling particularly surly, he would make some kind of lewd comment. Because of it, everyone tried hard to avoid him.

Spike continued to stare unseeingly at the television screen. Around him other patients read, played ping pong, chatted with each other, and a few had gathered around to watch the end of Passions.

Without warning the television suddenly flashed and the screen grew dark. Spike was ready to bellow his protest, when he noticed his primary care physician, Doctor Winifred Burkle, standing in front of the television. Her expression was firm behind her glasses, and Spike knew she was all about business.

"I was watchin' that. They were about to reveal Theresa's big secret."

Fred looked down at Spike and tried hard not to roll her eyes.

He was one of the most difficult patients. Since the day he arrived at the clinic, Spike had done everything he could to make everyone's life a living hell. Because he was unhappy, he was determined to make everyone around him unhappy. No matter how much anyone tried, they could not reach Spike; he never let anyone close enough to help him.

Spike's prognosis was common among the veterans that were treated in the hospital. He had suffered spinal injury from the accident, but with therapy he started walking again. The progress wasn't as fast as Spike would have hoped for and because of it, he became stubborn and discouraged.

"Good for Theresa," Fred said patiently. "We had an appointment, Spike. You're late."

Spike looked down at his empty wrist. "Sorry. Guess I lost track of time."

Fred took a deep breath. "It's okay, we'll just make up the time." She moved behind his chair and released the safety.

"I can do it myself. I don't need you pushing me around like I'm a baby in a sodding pram."

"Fine, suit yourself."

Without another word, Fred walked toward the door and headed to one of the empty examination rooms with Spike wheeling closely behind her. Once they were inside, she washed her hands at the sink and waited while Spike struggled to pull himself out of his chair and on to the table.

"So, Spike, how was your day?"

"I don't know. How about you help me brighten it, pet? Show me some of that southern hospitality," he said, attempting to mimic her Texas twang.

Spike leaned back against the table and leered suggestively at his doctor. In his opinion, she looked more like a college coed.

"I see you're turning up the charm today. When was the last time you exercised?"

"I don't know, last week maybe."

Spike usually had a hard time getting under Fred's skin. She was always professional with him. He watched her with her other patients, the ones who weren't labeled as troublemakers and she was always professional, but with them she had a kind of warmth. Sometimes Spike longed for the same treatment she showed the others. She had been like that with him at first. But he had crossed the line one too many times. Now he got professionalism and concern.

"That's not good. You have to at least keep your upper body strength if you're going to be stuck rolling around in that chair for the rest of your life," Fred said with her back turned to Spike as she pulled out some supplies.

Spike glared at the back of Fred's head and muttered a string of curses.

Hearing him, she smiled to herself. "Lift up your shirt."

"Now Doc, don't go getting fresh on me." He lifted his black t-shirt and exposed his solid chest.

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Spike flinched slightly as Fred placed her cold stethoscope on his chest. He took in a deep breath and exhaled, repeating the process when she moved around toward his back. He felt her fingers trace lightly over the scars on his back and tried not to shiver. Her touch wasn't sexual at all, but it still felt nice.

"All right, now to check your blood pressure."

Spike stayed silent as Fred went through his routine check up. He didn't say a word when she checked him for bedsores and infection. She went about it in a professional manner, stopping to ask him questions from time to time.

"You have to keep up with your exercises, Spike. It's important if you want to walk out of here one day," she chided as she tested the muscles on his calf. "Now wiggle your toes for me and flex your feet."

"What difference does it make if I do or I don't?" he said while flexing. "No point in walking if I'm like a shambling old man."

Ignoring him, Fred moved her hand over his knee, under his calf, until finally she reached his feet. The whole scene felt strangely erotic and Spike was tempted to make another crude comment, but refrained. His doctor was in rare form that day.

"You really are improving Spike, and if you continue to work hard, you won't have to worry about looking like a 'shambling old man,'" Fred said with conviction.

Spike was momentarily taken aback by Fred's sudden warmth and couldn't help the smile that formed on his reluctant lips. "I'd still be limping around."

"Yes, you'll limp. But with time that can be reduced. You can walk, Spike. You really can if you would just try. And when I say try, I don't mean for a week and give up because you aren't ready to run the Boston Marathon."

Spike turned his head to the side. He didn't want to look at her face. It made him want, it made him hope.

"Spike, listen to me," Fred said, trying to gain his attention again. "You can walk if you want to. Nothing is really stopping you, but you."

Spike shook his head in protest. "Doctor Francois said-"

"Screw him!"

Spike's head jerked back at Fred's uncharacteristic statement. "Look, Doc, you don't know-"

Fred turned away from Spike and grabbed his chart from the counter. "There is nothing in this file that says you won't ever be able to walk again. Nothing. You just have to try. What are you so afraid of, Spike?"

He was afraid of trying. He was afraid of trying as hard as he could, only to be told it was all for nothing.

"Nothing. I'm just being a realist."

Fred let out an exasperated breath and stuffed her hands into her white coat. "Fine, you continue to stew and wallow. But you're not going to do it on my time. I'm tired of it. I'm going to help you walk again if it's the last thing I do. For an entire year you've had your run of this place, terrorizing the nurses and the doctors. Well enough is enough!" she said, slicing her hands through the air.

Spike watched in stunned silence as Fred let loose on him. She was completely brassed off, and he couldn't help but enjoy her tirade. He had never seen the petite brunette so prickly. When she was angry, she bristled up like a cat and he could feel her frustration coming off of her in waves. Spike attempted to get a few words in, but every time he tried, she would plow on, not letting him speak until finally she disappeared through the door.

Spike sat alone and wondered if he should leave but thought better of it. He didn't want to take his chances and piss her off even more, so he stayed put. After a few minutes the door swung open and Fred returned, but this time she wasn't alone. Spike eyed the man standing next to his doctor and sized him up. He made Fred look smaller than usual, but neither of them seemed to notice the difference in size. Spike could sense a type of familiarity between the two and narrowed his eyes.

"Spike, this is Charles Gunn. He's going to be your new physical therapist. I've already told Charles all about you. He doesn't scare easily and you won't be able to pull any of your stunts on him that you have with your last therapist. He's been doing this for a long time and he's very good at what he does. If he can't get you to walk again, then I don't know who will."

"Oh? Come to teach me how to do wheelchair wheelies, huh? Handicap exercises and all of that? I don't need a sodding physical therapist," Spike said with a scowl as he eyed the other man.

"Sorry, bro. You heard the doctor, you're stuck with me."

Fred looked up at Gunn and smiled. "Now we can do this easy way, or we can do this the hard way. It's your choice." She took Spike's chair and rolled it over to Gunn.

Spike continued to scowl at both of them and remained sullen. "I'll be needing that if you want me to actually make it to therapy. Or am I supposed to crawl?" he said after a few moments.

"No. You can walk," Gunn said.

Spike's scowl deepened. He looked at the wheelchair several feet away. A light sheen of sweat formed on his brow when he realized that neither his doctor or his new therapist was going to help him get into it. The idea of falling on his face in front of them terrified Spike and he found himself longing for the safety of his chair. He hated feeling weak and helpless. He hated the fact that they were watching him so closely. And he hated the fear that knotted in his gut.

Spike gripped the edge of the examination table and shut his eyes. He pictured himself walking in his head. In his imagination he didn't stumble or fall. Before he could talk himself out it and demand they give his chair back, Spike slid off the table and winced as his sneakers touched the floor. He held on for a few moments, allowing his knees time to absorb his weight. Sweat continued to bead on his forehead as he opened his eyes and took one slow unsteady step forward. He kept his eyes trained on the chair as he hobbled across the short distance. Spike's knees gave out just as he slid into the chair.

Fred and Gunn glanced at each other, suppressing their smiles as they congratulated Spike.

Spike didn't say a word as the doctor and his new therapist wheeled him out of the examination room into the gym. He stayed silent as Fred gave him another earful of warnings. And he didn't utter a sound as Gunn ran down his list of his expectations.

But he did start talking when he was forced to start working, and the things that came out of his mouth would have made a sailor blush.


End file.
